


everything is gay no gods no masters

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: M/M, homophobia tw, violence tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4983853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan and Rick are both small-time criminal losers living out of their cars and banging</p>
            </blockquote>





	everything is gay no gods no masters

Stanley Pines still had a bottle of beer in hand when he left the bar, way too early as far as he was concerned. Oklahoma was a state that he wasn’t yet banned from, but it was also nestled snugly in the Bible Belt. He was accustomed to bars that didn’t shut their doors until at least three in the morning, if ever, but here it wasn’t yet midnight in this little podunk town and the place was clearing out. He doubted if he would find a place to buy more in this place, either. 

Over the din of the mass exodus of southern alcoholics shuffling to their cars and shouting to each other, Stan couldn’t hear someone calling his name. A balled up napkin soared over his shoulder, colliding with the side of the Stanleymobile and sending stolen peanuts flying everywhere. Behind him, someone screamed, “Pines!” The tone was aggressive, and people who had figured out his real identity were rarely friendly, but when Stan turned to face the culprit he saw a smiling face.

“Rick?” Stan opened his arms to Rick Sanchez, and as he pulled the man in for a hug, Rick threw some playful punches that narrowly missed. “I haven’t seen you since South Carolina, the hell are you doing out here?”

“I try and go places where that asshole Stanley Pines hasn’t ruined the scamming game for the rest of us,” Rick said.

“Oh, I know, I can hardly go anywhere these days ‘cause of him,” Stan said, his chuckle tapering off as Rick inched him back against the door of his car.

“He’s sorta hot, though,” Rick said.

Stan put his arms up, bracing against Rick’s shoulders when he got in too close. He didn’t want to push him away, not really, but he had reservations that Rick didn’t seem to share. Rick had a hand on Stanley’s hip and his usual shiteating grin, and before Stanley could think of a good enough excuse, their lips were together. 

Stan didn’t have time to analyze it before a panic response went off in his mind. He pulled back and looked around the parking lot, confirming his worries that people were staring at them. Rick scowled, giving him a shove to get his attention back.

“You got something to be ashamed of, Pines?” he snapped.

“No, I have something to be afraid of, though!” Stan said, speaking harshly but hardly above a whisper. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize y-y-you’d become such a fucking coward!”

Rick was yelling intentionally now, Stan realized, trying to make him more uncomfortable by drawing more attention. It worked perfectly in Rick’s favor. Before Stan could come up with a retort, someone in the crowd shouted, “Why don’t you two fags get a room!” The insult left Stan with a sense of burning shame, all the more so knowing it was one he’d used liberally, before he’d met Rick.

Rick’s eyes narrowed, and he let go of Stan, turning to spit in the direction the voice had come from. “Whatever,” he grumbled. “Get in the fucking car. I know a place we can still get a six-pack.”

\---

The ride to the convenience store was short, and yet still one of the longest of Stan’s life. Rick sat in the passenger seat with one knee up against the dashboard and his arms crossed, staring silently out the window. Being shunned affected Stanley more than he’d like to admit, and Rick knew that. His ability to read people had been a cornerstone of the scams they’d pulled together.

Stan cut the engine and sat still for a moment. “I’m not ashamed of you,” he said.

Rick rolled his eyes at him, throwing the door open and practically flinging himself out of the car. “Whatever,” he snapped. “What’s it matter? We barely know each other.” 

The car door slammed behind Rick, making Stan cringe. “You’re an asshole, you know that!?” Stan shouted, but he doubted Rick heard him. With a sigh, Stan patted the steering wheel of the car, muttering softly to it. “I’m sorry, he’s such an asshole.”

By the time Stan got into the store, Rick had already found the beer fridge. “For someone who barely knows me, you sure know how to piss me off,” Stan griped.

“Like it’s hard.”

“Don’t take your bullshit out on my car, Rick!”

“Car’s the only friend you’ve got, right?” In lieu of the Stanleymobile’s door, Rick slammed the fridge shut. He pushed past Stan, carrying a case of dark glass bottles. 

“Why are you so mad at me for not wanting to make myself a target?”

Rick laughed harshly, and spoke loudly. “Oh, yeah, Stan, you’re totally right. You fucked a guy one time and now you’re a fucking _expert_ on all things gay.” 

“It was more than once,” Stan started to say, but his voice dropped down to an inaudible mumble as he met eyes with the clerk and saw the judgemental look on his face.

They left the store in silence. Stan was lost in considering just dropping Rick back off at his car when Rick stopped walking, causing Stan to collide with him. The Stanleymobile was quickly lost from view as people crowded between them and their escape. 

“Ohh, shit,” he heard Rick mumble.

Stan put an arm out, trying to nudge Rick behind him. “We’re leaving,” he said, speaking up for the crowd. “We’re leaving right now.”

Someone took a step towards them, and the next thing Stan knew Rick was lobbing bottles at the crowd-turned-mob. There was no getting away.

\---

Stan was never introduced to Rick before they were thrown into what the Punchin’ Paddy’s Pub, located somewhere in Ohio, tentatively called their boxing ring. It was nothing more than the tables being pushed aside, clearing the floor for a bunch of drunks to stand in a circle and watch two stubborn people duke it out. There were no rules, no gloves, no regulations, nothing but the promise of a hundred smackers to the victor.

Rick was smaller than Stan, but he was wiry and fast. He hit hard and every punch he landed counted; he knew exactly where to aim to hurt the most. He was quicker than Stan, but Stan could hit harder. What made the fight difficult was that Rick kept coming back. Over and over, Stan would knock him back, send him reeling, and he would come back swinging. Stan gashed his knuckles open on Rick’s teeth and by the end of the fight he was sure Rick had knocked one of his loose. It only ended when an uppercut sent Rick to the floor, unconscious, blood trickling from his mouth that Stan had hoped was only from him biting his tongue.

Two other guys carried Rick away, and Stan was certain he was hospital-bound. An hour later, Rick Sanchez surprised the hell out of him when he sat down at the bar next to Stan, one eye swollen shut but still smirking. He formally introduced himself, ordered them up a couple of shots, and then immediately propositioned Stan.

\---

Rick and Stan were back to back, fists raised, striking whenever they could, but they were losing. Stan knocked one back and three more took his place. Staying close to Rick was the best Stan could hope for, but someone hit Rick hard enough to send him staggering backwards into Stan. Once he’d lost his balance, it wasn’t hard for the crowd to drag him away. 

Stan was flung backwards against the hood of his car, and before he found his bearings again, someone kicked his leg out from under him. As he struggled to get back on his feet, he could hear Rick screaming, but had to focus to comprehend what he was saying, spitting insults and egging them on. Rick wouldn’t stop, he realized. He was too proud, too stubborn, too boldly unopposed to dying, even if it meant Stanley would die, too.

Stan watched Rick go down under the flurry of punches and kicks, knowing damn well he couldn’t force his way through the crowd to get to him. A split-second later someone’s boot collided with the back of Stan’s head and he was aware of nothing except the way the world around him turned to liquid color that rippled and distorted every time his head throbbed or a sound grated against his eardrums.

By the time his perception sharpened again, he had lost all concept of time, but was grateful to see the shoes shuffling past his line of vision were clearing out, grateful that he was alive at all. He waited until there was no more noise of movement before he picked himself up. 

Rick wasn’t moving. His shirt was torn wide open, and Stan noted every mark where a fist or a boot had landed, a few cuts left by someone who either had a knife or was particularly savage with a ring. It took a shake to make Rick stir, groaning and rolling to the side to spit blood on the pavement.

“Happy now?” Stan asked, lowering himself down until they were both lying on the ground, Stan’s head propped up against Rick’s side.

“Tickled pink,” Rick answered, strained.

“I thought they were gonna kill us.”

There was no response. They were still, Stan focused on the throb in his skull until the intensity forced his eyes shut against the stars and streetlights. A few minutes passed before he felt Rick move, his hand settling on Stan’s arm and giving it a squeeze.

\---

“I don’t wanna go in,” Rick complained. They were parked in front of a motel, the blood on their faces long since dried. “I look like shit.” 

“Well, I _feel_ like shit, and I’m not sleeping in the car,” Stan said.

Rick let out a frustrated groan, shifting in his seat so he could tip his head back without straining any of the bruises on his neck. His eyes drifted up into the rear view mirror, and he paused. “... Stan, is that your fucking letterman jacket sitting in the back seat?”

“Uh, yeah, why? You wanna wear it?”

“Oh my god. Stanley Pines, you are such a straight boy.”

A smile broke across Stan’s face, the tension between them fading as they both snickered. “Here,” Stan said, letting out a pained noise as he reached into the back to grab it. “You’re practically naked,” he said, tossing the coat over Rick.

“Screw you, you’re the one who didn’t wanna stop at my car so I could change.” Rick wrestled the coat on, moving stiffly in the small space, while Stan got out and went to open the door for Rick. “Oh, gee, Pines, does this mean we’re going steady now?”

“Shut up, Sanchez.”

Rick’s left leg immediately buckled once he stood out of the car, and he grabbed the hood to stay standing. He muttered curses when Stan took Rick’s arm and slung it over his shoulder, but there wasn’t much room for complaint. Without the added support he wouldn’t make it to the door. They looked terrible, staggering into the office together barely on their feet, reeking of beer. The guy behind the desk didn’t look any more impressed with them than the clerk had.

Stan tried to smile, at least. He had to make up for Rick’s perpetual sneer. “Hey, we need a room.”

“Clearly.” The worker paused to have a scowl contest with Rick, until Stan pretended Rick was slipping and yanked on his arm. “We got a two bed on the second floor,” the man said finally, a sharpness to his tone.

Stan glanced to Rick, but Rick wouldn’t meet his eyes, instead glaring off to the side. It seemed he was finally done telling Stan what to do. Stan took a breath, and said, “No, we only need one.” It earned him the key being thrown at them, but at least Rick stopped frowning.

\---

Rick made a noise lifting his bad leg onto the bed that reminded Stan of a sound his old man might make on a rainy day. “Your leg’s not broken, is it?” he asked. He couldn’t afford medical bills. Neither of them could.

“I dunno,” Rick grunted. “Take my pants off and check.”

“Hell no. Do you ever stop trying to get laid?” 

"Nah."

All at once, Stan dropped himself on the bed with a loud groan. “Everything hurts,” he complained, stretching his limbs out until Rick started cursing and shoving him out of his space. “Kinda ironic, huh? First time in months we see each other, and now we can’t move.”

“Yeah, Stan, it’s real ball buster, ain’t it?”

Stan folded his arms behind his head, staring straight up at the ceiling. When he was alone in his car on the open road it was easy to tell himself that this thing he had with Rick Sanchez was just another crazy stunt he was doing as part of some double-life. Laying next to Rick and hearing his real name used was different. It made it impossible to lie to himself. He was having fun, and he couldn’t help feeling guilty for letting Rick down, whatever he was to him.

“Yeah.”

Grateful they hadn’t bothered with the lights, Stan shifted to his side and reached over, feeling for Rick’s belt buckle. Rick reacted immediately, sitting upright and pushing Stan’s arm back. “Come on, d-don’t- don’t do that, that’s weird!”

“How is that weird? We’ve fooled around before!”

“Yeah, but th-th-that was sex! This is… this is _intimacy_.”

Rick said it was like it was a dirty word, complete with an exaggerated cringe. “Seriously, Rick? You’ve been on my case all night long for not wanting to get my ass kicked over some trim, but intimacy is where you draw the line?”

“Some _trim_? Excuse me if I don’t wanna cum trembling in your fucking letterman jacket, Stan, I’m not-” 

“I know, I know, you’re not some pretty cheerleader! Jesus, Rick. You weren’t kidding, we really don’t know each other. What the hell do you want from me? Do you even know?”

“I know exactly what I want, Stan, that’s the difference between us. You’re the one who won’t admit what he wants!”

“Please, explain to me what it is that you want, ‘cause so far the best I can tell is you just want a fight! If you want to get your ass beat for being a queer that badly, you could just fucking go home!”

_Oh, crap._ Stan could practically hear glass shatter. The room was dark, but the glow of the street light shining in through the window was just enough to see the stunned expression on Rick’s face shift into a glare. For a moment Stan feared he’d take a swing, but neither of them was in any condition to fight. Instead, Rick scoffed at him, muttering bitterly as he laid back down with his back to Stan. “One bed, huh? Fuck you, piece of shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Stan said quickly. “I’m really sorry. That was fucked up, I didn’t mean it-”

“Shut the fuck up, Pines!”

Stan reached out, resting a comforting hand on Rick’s side, only to have his bony elbow shoot back and catch him in the chest, where there were already bruises in the process of swelling. It took a minute of yelling and writhing to compose himself again. “Jesus- okay, I deserved that.” On threat of further assault, he tried again, and this time Rick didn’t strike right away.

“Really, Rick,” Stan went on. “I didn’t mean to say that. I would never wish that. I’m really sorry.”

“Jeez, stop apologizing. It’s fucking annoying.”

Stan chanced getting closer, until he was pressed up against Rick’s back and had one arm wrapped around him. “Hey, listen, do you wanna… do you wanna wear my class ring, too?”

“Oh my god!” Rick burst out laughing, and though he was hitting Stan again, there was no power behind it and all the tension seemed to have left him. “Get off me, you fucking straight boy, I hate you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan said, wrestling Rick’s arms to the bed until he settled down. “I hate you, too.”

\---

Morning was rough. By the time they awoke, every bruise and cut they had sustained had swollen and grown irritated. Moving was hard, and even Rick couldn’t gripe that they hadn’t had sex this time. Together, they took advantage of a real shower, stole everything that wasn’t nailed down, and fled the motel. 

“It was real nice seeing you again,” Stan said through a yawn as they turned back into the bar parking lot. “Maybe next time we’ll meet up in Minnesota.”

“Maybe next time we could actually fuck.”

Rick rubbed his eyes against the sun as he got out of the Stanleymobile. One didn’t have to know Rick Sanchez long to know that on any given day at 8 A.M. he was hungover. Crisp morning air didn’t mean shit to him, he was barely aware of the world around him. Stan was the first to notice something was wrong, shouting, “Ah, shit!”

The place was deserted at this time of day, but the crowd that had been there the night before had left their mark. The windshield of Rick’s car was cracked, the windows all smashed in, the lock on the trunk knocked out so that it would never close again. Everything Rick had in the car, everything he owned, was strewn out on the pavement throughout the lot.

“Wh- oh, s-s-son of a bitch! Not again!”

What Rick did next, Stan could only think of as a temper tantrum, stomping around the parking lot crushing things under his shoes and kicking the side of his own car, all the while screaming curses for the whole town’s population to hear. Stan left him to it, pacing around the car until he found a spot in the ground that was clear of broken glass. He laid down, inching himself underneath the vehicle. 

“Hey, Rick, I’ve got more good news. Your tires have nails in them.”

“Great, so they wanted me to get on the road and fucking kill myself!” There was a pause in Rick’s dramatics, and then he let out a yell, the most genuinely distressed Stan had ever heard him. “Bianca!”

Puzzled, Stan slid himself out from under the car. At first, he assumed that Rick had been stupid enough to try keeping a pet while living on the road, but when he sat up he saw Rick standing there with a thick, bright blue dildo that had obviously been dragged across the pavement. 

“Jesus Christ, Rick, why do you- wait, why does it have a girl’s name?”

“Shut up! Why don’t you!?”

“ _What_?”

Stan watched him, pacing back and forth with that filthy thing in his hands, looking utterly devastated as he tried to brush it off. “Rick,” Stan said, slowly. “You cannot put that thing in your ass. It has gravel in it.”

Gradually, Rick stopped pacing, and heaved a heavy sigh. “Those monsters,” he whispered under his breath, and then addressed the toy directly. “You served me well through these years, Bianca,” he said. Then he threw it over his shoulder, and suddenly the moment had passed.

“God, Rick.”

“Shut up.”

Stan rolled his eyes, wondering, briefly, why he was even still there. Rick was obviously out of his mind, but the thought didn’t stop Stan from continuing. “Okay, listen, here’s the plan. You ride with me, we flip this thing for scrap, and use the money to get the hell out of this miserable place.”

“What? Y-y-you’re not scrapping my car, Stanley!”

“It’s not a car, it’s a spittoon on wheels!” Stan bent down, starting to gather up some of Rick’s things. Bianca wasn’t worth keeping, but he would still need clothes, and Stan didn’t trust the drunk bastard to be responsible enough to keep them. “That rust bucket isn’t worth pouring any more money into. Besides, sticking together will be…”

“What? Safer?” Rick interrupted. Stan didn’t look up, he could picture the look of judgment perfectly fine. “Go on, Stan, you were gonna say safer.”

“I was going to say smarter.” Stan opened up the trunk of the Stanleymobile, shifting everything around to free up as much space as he possibly could. “You know, we watch each other’s back, we pool our funds, we brainstorm together.”

“Sounds like the scammer’s equivalent of getting married.”

There it was. Stan could feel his face burning and knew damn well he was turning red. Rick zeroed in on it, and there was nothing Stan could do to derail him. Arms crossed, Rick circled in on him like an animal stalking its prey, waiting long enough to speak his mind that it started to drive Stan crazy. 

“Fine,” Rick said finally. “I’ll go, but only if you nut up and admit that you’re a big ol’ queer, too.” 

“I’m doing this as a favor to you, you know.”

“I wanna hear you say it, Stanley.”

Stan tried to take a step back, but Rick closed the distance. He could only assume his face was the color of the car by now. “I thought you weren’t supposed to pressure people into coming out.”

“Screw you, you’ve been in my ass at least three times that I can remember!”

“Wh- Only three? God, Rick, you really need to quit drinking.” 

“Say it!”

“Fine!” Stan put a hand in his hair and pulled at it, then grabbed Rick by the shoulders, spinning him around so he wouldn’t have to put up with being stared down. “Fine, you big asshole,” he continued. “You’re… probably right. I’m probably not totally straight.”

“And?”

“And I never got a class ring.”

Rick let out a frustrated sound, and much to Stan’s relief, walked away instead of getting back in his face. Rick started gathering the rest of his belongings, but the insults kept coming. “Yeah, that’s cause they’re reserved for people who graduate!”

“How would you know? I got farther in school than you did!” 

While Rick gathered up the things he would bother keeping, Stan pulled a map of the area out from under the driver’s seat of his car, spreading it out over the hood. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Rick discard the torn shirt he’d been wearing, pull on a new one, and then put Stan’s jacket back on despite not being exposed anymore.

“There’s a scrap yard two miles north,” Stan said, pretending he hadn’t been watching. “We’ll need to get someone to tow it before the property owner does.”

“Got that covered, Pines,” Rick said, smirking as he shoved a small wad of cash into Stan’s face. Instinctively, Stan saw money and snatched it away in a flash.

“Where the hell did this come from? Last night you were broke!”

“Trade secret, Stanley. I hollowed out Bianca at the bottom, she doubled as a foolproof money holder. Knocked this hole over last night before they closed up.” Rick thumbed back at the bar.

“Jesus, Rick! Is that why you didn’t talk to me until after we left, you were busy robbing the place?”

“Yeah, that and I figured you’d get real awkward about it.” Rick slung an arm over Stan’s shoulder and pulled him in close, immediately putting Stan on edge. This was never good. “You know, Stan,” Rick said, “I’m really starting to reconsider letting you jerk me off in this coat.”

“Oh my god, Rick, just get in the car!”


End file.
